


with long steps

by kirkaut



Category: Kingsman: The Secret Service (2015)
Genre: Angst, Domestic Disputes, First Time, Get Together, Harry Backstory, Harry Hart Lives, M/M, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-28
Updated: 2015-06-28
Packaged: 2018-04-06 15:16:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,249
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4226766
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kirkaut/pseuds/kirkaut
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Never walk away angry, Harry knows.</p>
<p>He doesn't think to tell Eggsy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	with long steps

Growing up, Harry had always admired the strength and durability of his parents' marriage. His father, an Earl, had come across his mother in a florist's boutique one hazy afternoon and been so completely struck by her that he returned at least once a week for three months, buying increasingly extravagant bouquets.

His father would always tell the story with a laugh, recalling how after weeks and weeks of orchids and roses and lilies, she had looked at him with exasperation and said, "If it's a dinner you're interested in, you'd be better off just asking."

They were wed a year later, to the day.

His home had been a happy one, if a bit lonely. An only child, he'd only had his dog, Amadeus, for company, as well as his nursemaid and assorted house staff. But he had never wanted for affection from his parents, who doled out hugs and kisses with frequency and spent any time that they could spare making sure that Harry knew just how greatly they loved him.

As he had gotten older, he relished the easy love between the two of them. Admired the way his mum would make his dad breakfast in bed every other Sunday, and how his father would buy a bouquet of flowers on the first Thursday of every month and present them to her with an exaggerated bow. Was nearly envious of the way that they would squabble and fuss and prod, so thorough in their knowledge of the other that they knew exactly which buttons to push whenever an argument sparked up in their household.

Harry only saw them well and truly bloody with each other twice: when his father's drinking had edged from 'occasional' into 'problematic' and he crashed the vintage Aston Martin his mother so loved into the low-sitting wall at the edge of their property, and again when Harry had gathered his courage and come out to the both of them in the summer of 1982. His mother, oddly enough, had been the one who'd gone hysterical, pressing Harry about whether or not he was 'sure' and 'maybe he just hadn't met the right  girl.' Once she'd spent an uncomfortable forty-five minutes rattling off the names of girls his age and of similar social standing, his father had snapped and raised his voice to her, insisting, "For fuck's sake, Helen, the lad isn't going to _change his mind_. You could set him up with the bloody Queen and it wouldn't make him less interested in cock."

She had reeled back, stung, and the ensuing fallout had been immense and vitriolic. Harry had slipped from his house and wandered along the estate's grounds, Amadeus a comfort at his side. When he'd returned, long enough after the sun had set that the world had been cast entirely in blue, his mother and father had been seated at the breakfast bench in the kitchen, sharing a bowl of custard and talking about the possibility of a trip to Cyprus at the end of the summer hols.

Harry had been struck very nearly dumb at the sight, such a contrast to the acidic exchange of words he had left behind hours ago, and his father let out a bark of laughter at his slack-jawed gaze. His mother had given a sheepish smile and left the room with a warm hug and an apologetic kiss to Harry's cheek.

His father had patted the seat his mother had just vacated, and Harry had settled into it, thumping down with his awkward, seventeen year old body. The importance of gentlemanly behaviour had been impressed upon him since he was in his short-pants, but never enforced within the comfort and confines of his own home, and so he sprawled into the chair, ungainly.

"How do you do it, Father?" Harry had wondered, dragging the bowl towards himself and getting a spoon smacked to the back of his hand when he dipped a finger into the custard. "You and mother, you never stay cross, and you're always so..." He swirled his finger back into the custard and ignored his father's exasperated sigh. "...happy," he'd finished, wistful.

His father had then awarded him with a fond half-smile, twirling his spoon between his fingers before letting it clatter to the bench. He dipped his finger into the bowl alongside Harry's. "Some day," he had confided, "You'll meet someone, Harry, and you'll fall terribly, madly in love. And you'll find that the last thing you ever want to do is walk away from them. You'll argue, you'll disagree vehemently, and they'll drive you up the bloody wall, but," he'd paused, sticking his finger into his mouth. "Talking is key. Communication, lad, is the backbone of all relationships."

Harry had slouched and watched the custard run down his fingers. "So that's your secret?" he'd groused. "Talking?"

His father had shrugged. "You'll understand one day, Harry. There will be that person who knows just the right way to cut you so clean you won't even realise you're bleeding until it's too late. And you'll be able to return the favour, and you'll scream and cry and think the worst. But, and this is important, Harry." They had leaned in towards one another, his father's face deadly serious. "Argue, it's healthy, but never walk away angry."

ooo

"Never walk away angry" is easier said than done, Harry finds, when Eggsy Unwin explodes back into his life with a solitary phone call and turns his world tits up. The young man is a cacophony of sheer, unadulterated life, with his rough accent and his colourful (if tasteless) clothing and his unyielding sense of loyalty. He swans in and reminds Harry of his failings; how he'd missed the grenade that ended Lee Unwin's life, how he had allowed a small family to be torn apart and never done a thing to help with the repair until it was too late.

Eggsy comes into his life and smiles at him, unashamed, and laughs at Harry's dry humour and leans closely into him. Eggsy waits by his bedside more days than not, Merlin tells him long after the fact with a warning look, when the detonation of the chip in Professor Arnold's neck puts him into a coma. Eggsy, whose gaze lingers on the line of Harry's shoulders and sticks in the direction of his mouth.

Harry hardly even realises how deep he's fallen himself until Eggsy fails the test with JB and steals the Kingsman taxi. Until he hacks the surveillance system and catches Eggsy taunting Dean, as if the bastard won't play dirty and use tricks to try and kill Eggsy after all the hostility between them has mounted as high as it has.

He's furious, humiliated, and so viciously disappointed that the world hazes at the edges and narrows down to Eggsy, slumped and sour, looming in his doorway.

They could kill each other just with words, Harry finds, as they trade barbs and hissing accusations. Eggsy takes one look at Mr. Pickle and turns that angry glare into words, and asks him if he's got Lee stuffed and stashed around his home as well.

Harry doesn't reel back physically, but it's a close thing. As it were, something in his chest rips apart and atrophies. He's ashamed to find that his chin trembles. "Can't you see," he asks of Eggsy, an entreaty, "that everything I've done has been about trying to repay him?"

Eggsy flinches back, and that's when Harry knows. He hears his fathers voice echo through his head, a memory from thirty-three years past: _There will be that person who knows just the right way to cut you so clean you won't even realise you're bleeding until it's too late._

That's when Harry knows he's utterly fucked, because he and Eggsy have made a bloodbath of each other in the small bathroom with only a few sentences spared between them.

Eggsy's eyes cut away from him, glassy and bright. Harry feels the distance keenly, even as they stand less than a metre apart.

_'I started this for him,'_ Harry wants to say, wants to kneel at Eggsy's feet in supplication. _'But I am doing this, everything, for you.'_

His glasses ring and he slips them on and turns away, unable to bear the miserable set of Eggsy's jaw. When he turns back around, the boy is stricken, talking quickly. "Harry, I'm so sorry."

"You should be," Harry spits, and doesn't say, And so should I. Eggsy begins to make a promise, a plea, a bet for Harry's continued trust, and he just can't bear it any longer. "I'll sort this mess out when I get back," he says with a snap of his teeth, and walks away.

His anger follows him, a dark thundercloud roaring in his head, but his heart exsanguinates and withers at Eggsy's feet.

_Never walk away angry,_ his father had warned.

Harry remembers it all too late when he's staring down the barrel of a gun, blood drying and tacky on his hands, Valentine's gaze wavering until he ducks his head and pulls the trigger.

His last thoughts are of Eggsy, and regret, and of harshly delivered final blows that tripped off the tongue with intent to hurt.

He fancies that he can hear the lad's desperate scream, just before the world goes black.

ooo

He doesn't get the chance to apologise for a long time after the fact. There are the months he spends in a coma in a Kentucky hospital, listed as John Doe, and the weeks he spends there awake and harassing doctors until they seem to tire of him and release him into Merlin's care. There's the flight home to England, completed at a lower altitude than normal to compensate for the trauma done to his skull, and it feels as though an entire second lifetime has passed until he's standing in the mews, gazing up at his home.

There's the sound of shattering glass in the street. Harry twists to find the source of the noise.

Eggsy stands on the front step of the house three doors down, orange juice splattered over his pants legs and across the pavement and thick shards of glass glistening all around his feet. He looks distraught, eyes wide but trembling in a way that means he's holding back tears, and when Harry whispers his name and steps forward, he stumbles.

His feet stamp down on glass and the bloom of blood is instant, swirling into the small pools of juice, but Eggsy seems to pay his wounds no mind.

He leaves bloody footprints behind when he collapses back into his home and slams the door in Harry's face.

Then there are the months of silence. 'Silence' isn't the right word, really, not when Eggsy talks to him but does so with averted eyes and a properness that's unnatural falling from his mouth. He's the picture of a perfect agent whenever he knows Harry's nearby, and his usual charming self when he doesn't.

He wears his guilt and anger, heavy and for protection like a Kevlar suit, and Harry feels his father's reminder burn a hole into his gut every time that Eggsy turns his back to him.

There are those months of silence and then Harry can't bear it anymore. He corners Eggsy in Fitting Room One when he's on his way down to the bullet train that will carry him to HQ, and presses him up against the door. He frames his face in both hands and tilts Eggsy's mouth into his own.

"I am so sorry," he confesses into the seam of Eggsy's lips, into the lines beside his mouth where dimples carve into his cheeks, into the spot of stubble on his chin he must have missed while shaving that morning. His hair is still slightly damp, and when Harry mouths at his jaw, he tastes of soap. "I never wanted to be kept from you, Eggsy, you must know, and if I'd had a choice in the matter, I never would have been."

Eggsy's hands are too warm and sweaty when they clasp across the back of Harry's neck, and he's never felt anything more wonderful in his whole life. "I'm so sorry for the things I said, Harry," tears from his mouth, ragged and panting. "I hear 'em, over and over in me head anytime I look at you, and I...fuck." Harry buries his face into Eggsy's neck and scrapes his teeth across the tendons. "I can't look at ya when all I hear is that fuckin' gunshot and all the shit I said," he says, "I didn't mean none of it, I swear."

His hands scrabble at Harry's neck, across his shoulders and down his back and up again, fingers twining into his hair when he pulls his face out of Eggsy's collarbone. Their foreheads knock together, and they spare a moment to breathe in the humid space between their noses, before Eggsy's saying Harry's name in that lovely, tremulous rasp. That's all that Harry can fucking take, his name falling out of Eggsy's mouth like forgiveness, and he smashes their lips together and licks in, deep.

He slides his hands, one at a time, from Eggsy's face and cups beneath the swell of his arse, hauling him up by the thighs. Eggsy comes willingly, jumping up enough to make the lift easier on the both of them. The door rattles when Harry presses him back against it, so he trips back and turns until he has Eggsy up against the mirror. Their combined body heat steams the glass and out of the corner of his eye, he sees their embrace in triplicate.

He presses his hand to the glass above Eggsy's left ear and the floor shudders to life beneath them. The mirror slides upwards behind Eggsy's back and they lose their balance and go crumpling to the ground. Eggsy curls his body over Harry's, bracing his hands on either side of his head to keep from falling on top of him completely, and giggles.

"I...may not have thought that through," Harry admits, turning his head to watch the brick walls creep past. Eggsy takes the opportunity to latch onto his neck and suck a dark mark into the skin. Harry allows it for a moment, eyes closing and hips thrusting up, before he curls his neck out of reach and twists his entire body to the side so that Eggsy is beneath him. He grinds their hips together and Eggsy's laughter dies into a groan.

"Keep that up," he pants, and reaches down to fumble with the button fly of Harry's trousers, "and we's gonna be late, bruv."

His hand curls around Harry's cock and strokes up, then down enough to pull away the foreskin, thumbing at the head.

"You bloody menace," Harry growls, bearing down on him. "As if I fucking care."

(They are, as it turns out, massively late to the new R&D meeting with Merlin, because once Eggsy manages to pull his hand out of Harry's pants long enough for them to board the train, they utilise the emergency stop button halfway to HQ and disable the comms system. Harry then endures the most excruciatingly thorough blowjob of his entire tenure as a sexually active individual, and repays the favour by rimming Eggsy for a good twenty minutes before he slides fingers into the spit-slick opening of his arsehole, one-two, and massages at his prostate before Eggsy comes with a shout, cock utterly untouched.

The satisfaction he feels over this is worth a thousand angry lectures from Merlin, worth the threats levelled at him by his oldest friend with increasingly dramatic creativity.

He walks out of the room, head still head high, and when Eggsy greets him with a gentle kiss, he thinks that might be worth so much more.)

ooo

Never walk away angry, Harry knows.

He doesn't think to tell Eggsy.

ooo

The argument is sudden and devastating, like a tidal wave crashing upon them and dragging everything good that's built up between them over the last five months down beneath its sucking pull.

It begins, inanely, one morning when Harry's washing his face in the sink, and reaches for a hand towel. As he leans, the bright blue tint of a toothbrush catches his eye and gives him pause. The bristles are still mostly straight, but broken in enough to imply a frequent use. Harry finds he can't recall when the toothbrush made an appearance, but that its presence has been a constant flicker in his memory not long after the first night Eggsy spent in his bed.

A glance around reveals more signs of Eggsy's presence. His shampoo and body wash, perched on the shelf in the shower. His razor and its replacement blades, laid upon a dish next to the sink. His clothing sitting in the top of the laundry hamper, and when Harry digs down, there's some at the bottom, as well.

Panic wells up within him, irrational but all consuming. When he exits the bathroom, his eyes can't help but catch on every single item that displays Eggsy's near constant presence.

He must look a sight, standing barefoot in his pants and a cotton tee, glancing wildly about the room, because Eggsy swings his legs over the side of the bed and looks at him warily. "You alright, love?" he asks, padding slowly towards Harry.

He realises with a histrionic start that he can't recall the last time Eggsy spent the night in his own home. That he's on the wrong side of fifty, bloody well shacking up with a man half his age, that Eggsy had come into his life so seamlessly he hadn't even fucking noticed until now that two of the drawers in his bureau and a fifth of the space in his closet are entirely dedicated to items of Eggsy's wardrobe.

"I think it would be for the best if you spent the night at home," he blurts.

He watches the way it takes a moment for the gears to click in Eggsy's head, sees the horrible moment when realisation dawns and Eggsy steps back until his legs collide with the mattress.

"What the fuck are you on about?" Eggsy demands.

And then they're off.

It's even worse than the fight they had before Harry had flown into Valentine's trap, because back then the only thing he'd truly had to lose was a possibility. Now, even as he spits and rants and raves at Eggsy, who gives just as good as he gets, he feels that fear creeping up inside. Because now, he stands a chance to lose Eggsy's cold toes prodding at his calves and the way he sleeps with his mouth just slightly open, or the way he wrinkles his nose at Harry's fine scotch, and loves pineapple and ham on his pizza with a veracity that borders on absurd.

Harry makes noise about moving too quickly, about Eggsy deserving better, about Harry needing time to sort out how he feels about such a step in their relationship, and dreads the idea that he might never be able to learn every silly, inane fact about Eggsy that there is to know.

"You're talking fucking shit," Eggsy seethes when Harry mentions taking a step back in their relationship. "You're so fucking full of it," even as he's yanking drawers open and throwing his clothing into an overnight bag. _Harry's_ overnight bag.

Harry opens his mouth despite his brain screaming at him to say no more, say nothing else, or you'll lose him forever, when there's the chime of Eggsy's glasses. He throws a pair of denim jeans into the bag with a particularly angry 'thwap,' and jams the frames onto his face and turns away from Harry.

"What," he demands, and plants his hands on his hips. "This better be fuckin' important, Merlin, or I swear to fucking God-"

He cuts off, head tilting to the left as he listens, and it's a quirk that Harry's never realised he adores until this very moment, until they're crumbling apart and being packed away into an overnight bag. He stares down at the blue toothbrush, shoved hastily into a side pocket, and feels ill.

There's a plastic clack as Eggsy folds his glasses together, and Harry drags his eyes up the angry line of his back.

He doesn't turn around, not completely. Just tilts his face far enough over his shoulder so that Harry can hear him when he says, "I've been called out on a mission to the States." He grabs one of his suits out of the closet, grabs a tie without looking, slings them both over his shoulder, and turns to leave.

"Eggsy," Harry bleats, suddenly feeling nothing short of terrified. _Never walk away angry._ "Eggsy, wait."

He deflates in the doorway, one foot in the hall, but he still doesn't turn. He sounds exhausted, old beyond his years, when he tells him, "We'll talk 'bout this when I get back."

And then he's gone, gone, down the hallway and out the door, and Harry is left to sway foolishly in his pyjamas, utterly bereft.

_Never walk away angry,_ he thinks, and the voice is ominous.

ooo

He's holed himself up in his office when his monitor chimes hours later, indicating an incoming call from Eggsy. He damn near spills his tea all over the desk and not inconsiderable piles of paperwork in his haste to answer.

"Galahad," is the first thing out of his mouth, and he just barely resists the urge to close his eyes in immediate regret. As it were, he keeps them open, and sees the already unhappy turn of Eggsy's mouth curve further downward, sees the way those green eyes flatten.

He looks exhausted. His hair isn't combed. His suit and tie don't match at all, because he'd grabbed for them blindly in his hurry to get away from Harry.

"Arthur," he greets in kind, accent posh. Harry's fingers clench around his fountain pen and feels totally wrong-footed. Eggsy hasn't spoken to him that way since their first kiss, and it's safe to say he hasn't missed having that cool, crisp tone directed his way.

"Eggsy," he tries again, gentle but affirming. "I-"

Eggsy deflates at the sound of his own name, posture loosening until he's slumped in on himself, arms crossed petulantly over his chest. "You're a right bastard, y'know that?" he asks. He shoves his tongue into his cheek, jaw cocking off to the side, and shakes his head. "It's been fucking months, Harry, if you didn't want me 'round, you coulda just said."

"That's not-" Harry tries, but Eggsy's still talking.

"I mean, fuck," he pulls his glasses off and tosses them onto the table beside his tablet. The clatter of the plastic is louder than his voice. "I guess I always figured I were more...y'know. Invested in you'n'me. But I figured you'd be decent enough to let me down gently, yeah?" He grinds the heels of his palms into his eyes, leaning forward so that all Harry can see is the messy tufts of hair sticking up all over his head.

Eggsy speaks again, and his voice is muffled by his hands and thick with the promise of tears. The sound makes every fibre of Harry's being stand on end, makes him feel ruined.

"I just." Eggsy shudders a breath inward, and it's a ragged gasp of air. Harry's chest hitches suddenly, and he realises that he has tears gathering in his own eyes. "I love you so fucking much, Harry."

The world stutters to a stop. All that exists is the tinny sound of Eggsy's breathing and the wild thump of Harry's heart. The words register, and the universe careens back into motion.

"Eggsy," Harry chokes.

That's all he manages to get out, because there's the sound of a door being thrown open on Eggsy's end. Harry watches as he sits up straight and spins around to face the pilot, who's looking pale and panicked. "What the fuck, Agravaine?"

"They've locked onto our signal," the other man says, tearing into the emergency cupboard where all of the parachutes are kept. "I don't know how they fucking knew, but they've got us in their crosshairs, Galahad, and we've got incoming."

"Shit," Eggsy swears, and throws himself off screen.

Harry's hands shoot forward to grip at the edges of his monitor, knocking over his tea after all. He can only see the barest glimpses of their bodies, fumbling and moving about the cabin, and then it happens.

There's a deafening, terrible crash, and the view from Eggsy's tablet shudders into incomprehensible images and the bright light of an explosion, before the signal cuts out.

The Kingsman logo rotates, stagnant, behind text that simply reads CALL TERMINATED. SIGNAL LOST.

He can't breathe.

"No," he whispers, and shakes at the monitor as if it will bring Eggsy back to him. "No!" he shouts, desperate and cracking, and throws himself from his chair.

Eggsy's voice follows him through the nearly empty hallways, as Harry shoves past agents and careens around corners, Oxfords scrabbling for purchase on hard-wood flooring and expensive oriental carpets.

_If you didn't want me 'round, you coulda just said._

Of course Harry wants him around, of course he does. He needs Eggsy there, every morning and every night, singing in the shower and burning toast and slipping along the halls in his socks because it makes him giggle. In his bed, in his home.

Their bed.

Their home.

_I always figured I were more...y'know. Invested in you'n'me._

Impossible, fucking impossible, Harry thinks hysterically as his palms slam into the wall, catching himself before he can slip and tumble to the ground. Has he really never said the words? Has he never told Eggsy just how vital he is for Harry to be able to get through the inanity of the sheer amount of paperwork that comes with being Arthur? How his cheeky grins make the days so much brighter and warm the expanse of Harry's chest.

_I love you so fucking much, Harry._

_I love you, too,_ Harry shouts inside his own mind, vehement and wild. _My darling boy._

He skids around a corner and stops in his tracks.

Merlin slows to a halt at the other end, looking out of breath and pale. Harry can see his throat bob when he swallows, sees his friend strengthen his resolve with the straightening of his spine. Merlin takes a step towards Harry, expression unhappy and apologetic, and Harry steps away.

"No," he says firmly, holding a hand up, palm out, imploring Merlin to come no further. The tech doesn't heed him, and continues barreling forward. "No," he says again, more quietly, a plea. "Merlin."

His friend reaches out and grabs him by the shoulders, hauls him into a tight embrace. When he speaks, his brogue is thick and his voice scratches, like the words have to be clawed out of him. "The plane went down somewhere on the Eastern side of the States," he tells him, and holds tighter when Harry fists his hands into Merlin's jumper. "We don't know how the cartel knew we were coming, or how they got access to missiles, but the plane." Merlin shoves a kiss into Harry's temple and tries to bury the words there, too. "The plane crashed. We've no signs of life from Agravaine or...or from Eggsy."

_Never walk away angry,_ Harry hears as he collapses to the ground, still clutched in his best friend's embrace. _Because you never know if you'll have the chance to come back._

ooo

Harry goes home, eventually. After three sleepless days of camping out in Merlin's office, eyes glued to the monitors for any sign of Eggsy in the news, or in reports from the Statesman agents, and living off of Merlin's stash of chocolate digestives and good scotch, he goes home.

The bag is still half-packed and overflowing with clothing in the middle of their bedroom floor. Harry bends down, hands trembling, and pulls the blue toothbrush from the side pocket. He runs his thumb along the bristles.

Eggsy may very well never use this toothbrush again, he realises, and it's the most he can do to stumble to the mattress before his legs give way.

He curls himself into Eggsy's pillow and chases down the lingering scent of him, and lets his body convulse with sobs until exhaustion pulls him deep.

He wakes, hours later, and still reaches out for Eggsy. He finds nothing but cool sheets and empty air. His ears ring with the realisation.

Only.

That's not quite right.

He blinks away the last vestiges of sleep, and realises that the ringing is coming from the old rotary style telephone set on Eggsy's bedside table. He shoots out a hand and hauls the receiver to his face, pressing the plastic against his ear with too much force. "This is Harry Hart speaking," he manages around the lump in his throat.

_"Have you ever wondered,"_ comes a voice, sounding equally as exhausted but so very, very dear. _"Why the fuck there's a West Virginia? What's wrong with just the one Virginia, yeah, or like. Why ain't it East Virginia? Either way, I'm stuck in the middle of fucking nowhere - no offence,"_ the last part is a bit distant, as if Eggsy is addressing someone off to the side, and then Harry can relish in the full force of his rough accent when he speaks back into the microphone. _"And Agravaine and me have run out of rations after wandering through the fucking mountains for three days straight, and we've got no dosh, and I'd really..."_ There's a hitching sob, nearly like a laugh. _"I really want to come home, Harry. Can I? Please, love, just let me come home, at least for a night or two."_

Harry presses the knuckles of his left hand into his brow and weeps around his happy grin. "Of course you can come home," he promises, tremulous overwhelmed. "God damn it, Eggsy, darling, come home and never leave."

He hears Eggsy hiccup out a sob on the other end. _"Yeah? You promise?"_

Harry presses his face into the down of Eggsy's pillow and breathes in the gentle spice of his shampoo, and quiet tang of dried sweat from where Eggsy had pressed his forehead into the pillow the night before he went missing, hips pushing back to meet Harry's thrusts. He's come so close to losing this, he thinks, feeling mournful at the possibility. When he has Eggsy back within his sights, under his palms, when he can feel the bow of his lips caught between Harry's own, he's going to make damn well sure he never risks losing such things again.

He slips from the bed and crosses to his sock drawer, digs in until his fingers find where a small silk bag is hiding towards the back. He pulls it out and undoes the drawstring, upending the bag until a slightly tarnished white-gold ring tumbles out into his palm.

He pinches the band between his thumb and index finger and holds it to the light. Despite its years of wear, his father's wedding ring still catches the sun and shines.

"I do," he tells Eggsy, and imagines his own hands cradling Eggsy's left ring finger, well-loved gold slipping down.

 

**the end.**

 

 

 

 

****  
  


**Author's Note:**

> why do i like hurting eggsy so much? i don't know. science will figure it out.
> 
> i'm on tumblr as kirkaut :)


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